The wounded thug was long since gone, and the tension within the bar finally gave way to a deep sigh of relief from Rust.
As if to emphasize the calming atmosphere, the corner jukebox played its last note, filling the air before subsiding into a still silence to match Rust's meditative disposition.
With his eyes still shut, Rust called Scrap over, using a calmer tone than before. His rage had now subsided, giving way to worry. In his heart of hearts, Rust knew that he was far from his glory days. A potential feud with the new guys would mean the end of his retirement. Even so, he had become rather attached to the hunk of metal that now stood at attention next to him after hearing his call.
"Hey Scrap, mind resetting the playlist on the jukebox once more?"
Scrap turned his metal head towards the corner and moved slowly towards his designated target. With a smooth move of his metallic hand, Scrap pressed the reset button, and with it, the room became awash with the sweet dulcet hums of music. Uncertain of what to make of the sounds that filled his surroundings, Scrap began to wonder why these songs were so precious to Rust, seeing how they always played when he was at the counter.
Unprompted, Rust offered a comment in response to Scrap's unspoken query.
"The Voice of Devils - that's the first song from the album. It's a solo composition, funny enough, but it depicts the singer's struggle with temptation, as every verse refers to a different devil that offers her different delights."
As Rust offered his spontaneous explanation, Scrap saw fit to ask.
"So what's the deal with this track selection, boss? Don't tell me you found God down here?"
Rust laughed heartily at Scrap's comment, as to point out the ridiculous assumption brought forth by his metal companion.
"No, you blockhead. The blood that stains my hands is still fresh. There's no God out there who could ever lift me up to Heaven's Gate, but there was at least one angel that tried."
With his last words spoken, Rust fell back into his meditative state. As the gentle song from the jukebox brought forth the devil's blessing.
While the melody lingered on, Rust saw fit to take a decisive measure against the brewing feud that Scrap brought to his door. He might have been out of the game, but there were still some connections he could call on, be it for a price.
With newfound resolve, he rose from the counter seat and went straight to the coat hanger. He was prepared to make a late-night call.
"Scrap, bring your guns. It's time to visit 'Devil's Coldrean,' the residence of our esteemed sixth sector scrap lord."
All the words that needed to be said were spoken, as both figures exited the bar, the sweet melody of the jukebox offering them a fond farewell as the door closed behind their turned backs.